Enlightening Nonsense

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“Well you can tell ev’ryone I’m a down disgrace, drag my name all over the place, I don’t care anymore. You can tell ev’rybody ’bout the state I’m in, you won’t catch me crying ‘cos I just can’t win…I don’t care what you say. I don’t play the same games you play…I got nothing to lose if I speak my mind…I don’t care what you say. We never played by the same rules anyway…And I really ain’t bothered what you think of me. ‘cos all I want of you is just a let me be…I don’t care what you say. I never did believe you much anyway.”

—Phil Collins, “I Don’t Care Anymore”

As my loyal readers might have figured out, well, all except “Tom” who sits all day in front of a computer masturbating to the picture of Claudia Lynx on the “My Limp Biscuit” piece [http://rebelyogi.com/amy-rachelle-and-my-limp-biscuit.html], I haven’t been sharing as much writing in the past couple of months. It would be nice to tell you some nonsense about how I am busy with bigger “projects” or how I’ve been focusing on my book but that would be about as big a lie as the excuses I give my clients when I’m late for an appointment, such as:

“I would have been to our session on time but I was rolling past a Blimpies and they were having a two-for-one sale and it was only good for the next 10-minutes and so I ordered two foot-longs with the works and since I didn’t want to carry them, I sat down and ate them, which gave me a stomach ache—because I was trying to rush so that I would be on time for our appointment—which required me taking a dump to relieve but the bathroom was full and the person was stinking up such a storm in there with their anal thunder that even if she finally got off the pot and left me a single square for which to wipe my ass, I couldn’t see myself going into that windowless gas containment area like which happened to the Jews in the made-up conspiracy called the Holocaust… and that is why I am late.”

But the truth is that I’ve been spending most of my time spanking it to the picture of Claudia Lynx. That, and a few pussies, who no number of psychotherapy or vipassana sessions could make any less vaginal, have given me there own analysis based on their many years of experience of living fraudulently, which has shown me that I am wasting my genius on morons. So I have been in a mode where I don’t want to share with you and I am considering going Jay and Silent Bob and tracking down all of you idiots and beat the piss out of you.

The cowardly “Eel” psychoanalyzed that my writing was a way to channel my anger into sarcasm and gave me a lecture about how she is above everything but my poetry. I’m saving her multiple emails about how she was in hysterics from my more acrid writing not only for the upcoming court case but also, dare the time comes, where I ever look upon her once again fondly that I can review and immediately come back to thinking her a worthless pussy that can’t be fucked, can’t create anything original and is too cowardly to take a piss in a public bathroom.

The scuttling Roach is the pseudo-spiritual equivalent of some mental patient who drools on herself while repeatedly shouting, “That’ doesn’t feel good!” who in a condescending manner seems to claim that the only writing of mine that has value is the ones that fit into her dogmatic reality and, frankly, I would rather lay my apartment floor with breadcrumbs and invite an infestation of buggy roaches than let her spiritual garbage-feeding preaching fill my head and attempt to eat my brain, like the brain-eating bug in The Wrath of Khan. While Roach’s idea of a “Roach Motel” is a place where a different guy comes in the room every 15-minutes and fucks her, mine consists of a box of poison where the screams of agony are muffled so as not to disturb my toss-off session to Claudia Lynx.

I already shared a little of what I am doing in my writing with “The Man Behind The Curtain” [http://www.rebelyogi.com.the-man-behind-the-curtain] but that doesn’t seem enough to tickle your throat so that you can puke up all the rot you have swallowed and call “nutrition” and all the books and lessons you’ve read from diaper-wearing life-avoiders and call “wisdom.” So I have decided to share with you the secret teachings going on in my writing and by doing so, I will probably make it less effective, like watching one of those exposés on magic tricks and then going to a show where a magician does the “saw the lady in half” trick.

I don’t care though because I don’t care about you. And if I weren’t holding onto one of my final buttons, the ones of Truth and Fair Representation, I would pull a Jesus and die and never come back and leave everyone to misinterpret both my words and me in silence. But I’m not a pussy like Jesus, so instead I will spit my vitriolic acid in an attempt to be a flame not of guidance but of destruction. “Oh, poor Swami X! He has gone off the deep end.” I went off the deep end a long time ago and have been swimming just fine until you started trying to drag me into the shallow end where all you bedwetters urinate because you’re too pussy to go in over your heads.

Before you feel all holier than thou with your “What a shame” and give me your fake blessings that really are just a silent prayer that I won’t speak loudly enough to blow your con, your hands are just as bloody as mine, Mrs. Macbeth. You talk about “Oneness” and “saving the world” but ignore the people who gain insights from the silly “dirty” stuff as being juvenile and “not on the path.” You have shoved your stale white bread spirituality down my throat to the point that now ANY food makes me sick and then leave me to die of malnutrition on my own as you feed your breadcrumb pigeon-feed to others who are too sheepish to pull your feeding tube out of their veins and get the hell out of your hospital where the air is not so stale and realize the sickness they are experiencing is you. That is the problem, with all your fake smiling and 10-second hugging and hand-over-hearting, you look at those of us who don’t fit into your one-size-fits-all gowns as sick. No, you are the sick ones and I’m not sticking around to see the fat asses overfed from your empty calories sticking through the prison camp love gown you share with the pathetic.

I’m reminded of a story my brother told me about when he was in podiatry school. Some doctor was walking around with students and came up to a Down Syndrome patient. He proceeded arrogantly, “This patient has Down’s Syndrome. His mental capacity is that of a semi-moron and he won’t understand most of what you would say to him.” At this the patient spoke a sermon that would have made Moses drop the tablets he was carrying and say, “Screw the Ten Commandments—this man speaks the word of God himself!”

“Hey, doc… FUCK YOU!” At this, one of the assistant residents covered his mouth and ran off, went in a room and closed the door and a burst of belly laughing was heard resonating throughout the wing.

I say the same to you, with a little adjustment, “Hey cock… FUCK YOU!”

A little historical background before I share with you the secret teachings of my Mystery School…

I asked my artist friend, Blue Owl, if she liked Escher. For those of you who don’t know who Escher is, he was a Dutch graphic artist from the first half of the 20^th Century who did mostly black and white drawings that boggled the mind: Are the stairs going up or down? Is that hand drawing the other or is the other drawing it? Is that the near side or far side of the cube?

She said she liked him and told me a story how someone supposedly figured out mathematically how Escher did his drawings and gave a presentation about it and Escher was like, “That’s not how I do them at all!” It was like that scene in Annie Hall when Woody Allen pulls author Marshall McLuhan out from around the corner to shut up the pontificating professor who has been loudly dissecting his work on the movie line in order to impress his date [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFo5Ky8YE8c]

Also around that time was the great boxer Jack Dempsey. I have a rare book by him that I got from a wino bookseller for a bottle of booze and a blowjob, a steal considering that I was able to get drunk by just swallowing his load and this saved me at least $50 from my planned night of boozing and prostitution. I heard a lot of books on fighting refer to this classic book and I wanted it. It took a month before the bookseller was able to find through his searches and acquire it and I paid over $100 maybe 15 years ago, which today would be…let me see, figure into the equation inflation, the price of the dollar—about $675.50.

Dempsey decided to do a real study of “The Sweet Science,” breaking down the exact body mechanics in throwing a punch, weaving, etc. He talked to boxing champs and most of them were just like, “There’s no technique—I just do it.” Through further querying and personal exploration, Dempsey was able to break down many principles, such as how to take a “falling step” with the punch you are throwing to put the whole bodyweight behind the punch for maximum power and how to get the most bang for your buck.

Just like Escher, when the champion boxers were connected and doing their artwork with their gloves, they were naturally tapping into principles of physics and mathematics without their awareness of it. This didn’t mean that these principles weren’t at play, they just came naturally and weren’t on the mind of the artists as they created.

I took a weekend screenwriting workshop with the famous screenwriting teacher, Robert McKee. One day was devoted to “The Thriller,” which was what I was writing at the time, and the other day was devoted to “Comedy.” Besides seeing a few fun film clips from Woody Allen and other comic geniuses, I found the Comedy day somewhat lame. In my opinion, either you got it or you don’t. You’re not going to get some stiff Japanese kid who’s never cracked a joke in her life, sitting straight-backed in her chair copying every word the teacher has to say, such as, “You have them expecting something and then present them with something else,” come up with The Great American Comedy.

Although I have experienced a lot of head trauma during my seven years of full-contact kickboxing competition, I am not quite as brain dead as the boxers who have made a living out of getting hit and hitting others in the head. As a result, the few brain cells I have that don’t just sit around and get fat can look objectively at what I write and break down some of the comic elements and tools that have been used, like a carpenter looking at a finished house and knowing what tools were used to construct it. But like Escher and the boxing champs, when I write—be it comedy or the hidden teachings—it flows from me, through me really, and I don’t think, “I will have them expecting one thing here then—BAM—it’s something else. How comical!”

The Indian mystic Osho spoke for hours every day to his gathering of seekers for about 35 years. When he would speak, he would take random pauses often in the middle of sentences. Sometimes just for a couple of seconds, sometimes for almost a minute. He said that these pauses were designed to induce a meditation in his listeners, that it would give them moments of silence while their minds awaited the next word. That, he said, was more important than any specific topic or philosophy about which he was talking. This is also why those who just read the transcripts of his talks that have been gathered into over 600 book titles without knowing the essence of the man will miss a great deal in the reading of it, whether they can quote him like Scripture or not.

My writing is designed to get both the “Seeker” and the “Jerk-Off” into a meditative state. And for those who have read one too many books on meditation and think it means closing your eyes and feeling a little spacey, it doesn’t. The “Jerk-Off” isn’t interested in “deep” thoughts or anything remotely spiritual; he just wants to read and laugh. And I give that to him. But… I also throw in a few items that he is forced to ponder, whether consciously or unconsciously… and so the seeds are planted. They may germinate this week or next year or never. He will have to provide the water for them to grow into their full potential but sometimes just the gap created in his laughter provides the ray of sunlight to start them sprouting.

For the “Seeker,” if all I do is write some shwarmy words of wisdom on spirituality, it will just get lost in the words and philosophies from books and lectures and workshops and degrees that they wear on their costumes like medals of wisdom and which surrounds them like the cloud of dirt that surrounds Pigpen from Charlie Brown.

They will love this kind of useless talk and praise me for being so “deep,” while they look at me with the ga-ga eyes that I see many “Seekers” look at teachers and workshop leaders in a codependent way like a boozer looks at his bottle, and not an empowered way that is strong enough to kill their teachers and walk away alone in confidence—without the need for the false protection of the gun of book knowledge, shooting their bullets of trivia at those around them because they are too scared to let them approach for fear that they are thieves who will rob them of their pompous baggage and leave them standing naked and exposed in an alley, as opposed to their ashrams that allow them to bring in all their luggage as long as it is covered up with robes and chanting, which only make their junk pile larger. What they seek is more cloudy dirt and like a black hole they either suck in everything that comes at them to add to their bland spirituality or, if they can’t do that, they repel it.

I don’t like talking to dirt piles but to people and I have seen many big presenters who are so surrounded by their own muck of bullshit knowledge that they no longer see individuals but only see a cloud of gloom that they pretend is clarity [see “Dr. Brian Clement Is A Prick, [http://rebelyogi.com/dr-brian-clement-is-a-prick]. Like me or hate me, when I speak I don’t give a shit about changing the world or promoting a dogma or letting my audience know how many books I’ve read; I care about individuals.

At the Raw Spirit Festival in D.C. this year, when I was on a “Transitioning To Raw Foods” panel with other “experts,” I looked out at who I was talking with and it seemed to me that the other members on the panel were like actors on stage with a bright spotlight on them, blinded to the faces and expressions and tears and laughter of their audience. Sure their eyes were facing the many seated but they had a glaze over them that indicated that whether the seats were full or empty, they would continue with their same diatribe.

I saw people who were “regular” and by that I mean not card-carrying members of the Raw Food Cult. Talking about dealing with your craving for the slice of pizza only $1.50 away from your mouth by popping algae pills was like talking about eating vegan to men who club baby seals for a living.

After the panel I had a woman come up to me and ask me a question, saying that I was the only one who resonated with her. It wasn’t because I recited more random trivia than the “experts” that surrounded me on either side, like the one whose Raw Food resume and festival and expo appearances might dwarf mine who said that the human body cannot digest meat—which is cut and paste factually incorrect nonsense.  It was because I care very little for trivia or the latest Oneness workshop or how you meditated “And I saw a bright white light and then a blue haze.” Whoop dee doo for you. When the moderator talked to us before the panel to ask us what we wanted her to ask us, I was the only one who said I didn’t care. The others wanted to guide her questions towards the trivia they had memorized and call knowledge. That is why these people usually look like a deer in the headlights when the talk drifts to something outside of their “expertise” in memorization.

I don’t care about saving my listeners and I sure as hell don’t want to add more crap for them to carry around and stare at instead of dropping all the baggage that others have told them is necessary, which really only keeps them turning inside for a change. I care about penetrating the wall of muck that an individual has accumulated because of often well-meaning but misleading teachers, parents, priests and pundits and striking sparks in individuals to remind them that they are just as potentially powerful as all the so-called “experts” and “gurus” and “rinpoches” so that they can burn the world down if they so care to but if they rather just sit and watch the sun set, that’s just as good—heck, I’d probably join them and leave all the missionary work to Mormons and compulsives who don’t know how to have fun in the NOW and instead spend their lives in the tomorrow of a world with perfect health and no war. Sounds a bit like fairytale Heaven to me.

The “Jerk-Off” is the type who doesn’t know, doesn’t claim to know and doesn’t care. The “Seeker” is the type who doesn’t know, thinks that she does know and is on a mission to let everyone know just how much she cares.

I don’t know, I don’t claim to know and I certainly don’t care.

One reader wrote me that while most of the stuff I write goes over her head, she really appreciates what she does get. She was brave enough to say, “I don’t know.” The “Seekers” usually don’t know but because they measure themselves solely according to how they compare to others, rather than admitting that something has gone over their head, they will claim it to have gone under their feet, that it is too lowly for them to even stoop down for. They claim to be Warren Buffets whose spiritual wealth is so much that bending down to pick up anything less than a $100 wisdom on the ground is not worth their time. But they are really paupers, too stupid to recognize treasure from trash.

So back to my “technique.” It is the cheap spiritualist who can put words like “Oneness” and “bliss” and “Namaste” into her spiritual pipe and smoke it. It is the real seeker who can smoke all that expensive hash but can also smoke talk of doo-doo and pee-pees and violence and bodily functions and, dare I say it—sex—and get just as high as the purist drug taker. The real seeker can piss into his gas tank and get the same mileage as the cheap spiritualist who will only put high-octane in her tank.

So, in just the way that my Jack Handy moments of deep thoughts cause a gap and plant a seed and even give it its first watering in the “Jerk-Off,” my tasteless, rude, racist, sexist, homophobic, anti-Semitic, violent, angry way unnerves the “Seeker” enough to create a gap, usually in the form of nauseous discomfort, where the deeper stuff doesn’t just accumulate like all the other cut and paste scraps that cover her like a homeless person covers herself with cardboard boxes and newspapers and any piece of garbage that will keep her warm from the cold night, but instead penetrates to the core—plants a seed, sprinkles some water, strikes a spark—and, if she is not a spiritual pussy, will have her looking forward to the next cold night so that she can face and thereby remove more of her fears. Osho said, “Only through friction integration happens.” These fearful “Seekers” seek to avoid all friction and when they are in a vacuum devoid of friction—usually created by surrounding themselves by other touch-phobic avoiders—they actually think they have arrived at bliss.

Most “Jerk-Offs” outwardly don’t care about penetrating life any deeper. They are either happy in their mediocrity or don’t know that there is something more. They are the sweet ignorant.

Most “Seekers” outwardly talk about penetrating life deeper but they are too much cowards to drop all their dirt and stand naked in acknowledged ignorance. Even Eve, the first woman according to the myth, was not able to stand in her nakedness and enjoy the beauty around her. She needed “knowledge” and when she ate the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, she fucked everything up. It is only in nudity that you can connect with your source and create. I’ve tried creating with my clothes on and it usually only leads to wet underwear and a sore dick.

I prefer the company of “Jerk-Offs” to “Seekers” because “Jerk-Offs” in their child-like innocence still have a sense of humor and know how to have fun. “Seekers” on the other hand have replaced their sense of humor with a serious mission, sucking away like a vacuum everyone’s smile that they meet. In their childish ignorance they only know how to play at having fun.

Another item of note if you care to enter my Mystery School is that I often write “out of sequence.” I have some pieces that have been floating around in the ethers and wanting to come into the physical realm whose events took place over a year ago. When I finally share these with you, I tend to get “Seekers” claiming to know where I am at the moment or how I am feeling.

To make it simple for you dummies: have you ever had a heavy argument with someone? And by “heavy” I don’t mean the passive-aggressive pussy stuff that most of you “Spiritualists” talk in. Imagine if you were writing about that event a year later, long after the fire of angst has burned low and its embers no longer glow. Now imagine that you were a good writer and could write a year later and fully get into the scene and on paper, or digital readout, you could pour gasoline on the embers and ignite them into a bonfire of vanity. Imagine now that you are able to exaggerate and even make-up how you feel in that situation, sometimes for dramatic effect, sometimes for comic effect and sometimes to cause gaps of silence in your readers.

Now imagine if some moron were to read what you wrote and think they knew you and how you were feeling in this moment and even went so far as to give you their holier-than-thou advice about how “You seem to hold onto anger” and how “Compassion is the fashion: don’t wear fur!” (I got lost in my animal rights days for a moment.)

And then imagine that this fool doesn’t like words in italics and since you sprinkle your piece with a word and even sentences and paragraphs that are in italics, this brilliant armchair psychologist tells you that you are juvenile and how you are capable of much bigger things than “just” italics. Because they don’t understand italics they think that no one does and no one should have the opportunity to see if they find joy in italics, in spite of the fact that they do not.

It makes me feel like one of those psychotics who stand trial with the explanation of why they bludgeoned their mother with a baseball bat with the brilliantly presented, “It was the only way to stop the voices in my head.” NOT GUILTY. Yeah, right. I would like to bash you stupid mother fuckers in the head and I have a feeling that if a judge had half a brain in his head and he read all the “testimony” that you retards write and say to me that he would not only find me NOT GUILTY but you demented fools GUILTY of moronicy.

I look forward to when martial law comes and they line the stupid up against a wall and shoot them, while the rest of us can have microchips and forced vaccinations injected into us. Maybe I’ll be a mindless robot to the New World Order but at least I won’t have to hear your feigned expertise on not only subjects that are irrelevant to coming to know Who You Are but as self-proclaimed experts on Who I Am.

I’m waiting for the slew of unauthorized psychographies with such titles as Who Is Swami X?, The Real Swami X and Swami X—Circumcised or Not?

You cowardly “Seekers” often quote variations of Swami Satchidananda’s “Truth is one, paths are many” and yet you can’t be even remotely spiritual and see that in my very writing I am opening different paths for different people. Instead you sound like fundamentalist Christians who say, “If you don’t give yourself to Jesus you’re going to burn for eternity in Hell” or a fundamentalist Muslim who says, “If you don’t give yourself to Allah, I’m going to blow you up. Even if you do give yourself to Allah, I’m going to blow you up, you infidel!” The result is that I find myself off the club list. The difference between you and me is that I wouldn’t wait a half-hour to go into some club filled with a bunch of posers.

Some of you have turned me off so much that you nearly extinguished my own spark of life with your foul-smelling hot air, not facilitating what’s alive in me but instead suffocating it with your dogmatic preaching. I stopped writing in part because I knew that while some of you had overtly stated your need and desire for distance from me—always under the cover of your personal spiritual journey (of avoidance)—covertly you have not severed your bonds from me and check in periodically to my un-blog to “see what’s up with Swami X.” I wish you wouldn’t. It is because of you spiritual deniers that I have considered burying my first book and stopping writing altogether. But while I am not a pussy and wouldn’t give you the same power your desperate followers and groupies give you, I stopped bellowing any spark of sharing that I had daily nurtured to seek a flame of connection with you, giving up using flames for nurturing altogether, and now only use them for destruction.

But I’ll still write the fuckin’ books. Because God is tired of you boring do-gooders and wants his voice to be heard using all of his beautiful sounds, including “fuck,” “shit,” “pussy,” “asshole,” “dick,” “cunt,” “douchebag,” “jackass” and, yes, even “prostitute.” George Carlin was the last messiah come to this earth but everyone was still stuck in “thees” and “thous” to appreciate a good “pussy.”

The real way for you to treat my writing like a meditation and to reap benefit (I write this to the “Seekers” as we all know the “Jerk-Offs” only want to laugh) is to get out of your head, your mind, about what is tasteful and tasteless, what is spiritual and spiritless, what is valuefull and valueless and instead observe what are you feeling and thinking, which is often expressed through your body. If you have a strong reaction either way, be it “Right on, Swami X!” euphoria or the more likely “You’re a pig, Swami X!” nausea, that only indicates that you are a pre-programmed computer who is not ready to break down your conditioning to see Who You Are really. The stronger your reaction, the more dogmatic and lost you are.

Why do you even need to read or speak with not just me but anyone if all you are doing is cutting and pasting the pieces you like onto your mosaic of unoriginality and throwing away the pieces that don’t fit the Piss Christ you call art?

Maybe you feel that “spirituality” should only be expressed through serious behavior.

A Krishnan walks into a Christian church, as he was told this is a house of God. He smiles at the priest who looks back at him suspiciously, as his orange robe and beads do not make him look like a Christian. Instead of saying, “Welcome, brother,” the priest says, “What do for you want?”

The Krishnan says, “I came here to bathe in the joyful mirth of God.”

“Joyful mirth?” questions the priest. With that the Krishnan takes from his robe a picture he has been carrying of Krishna playing a flute and dancing with many girls and shows it to the priest. “That is not an appropriate way for a God to behave,” says the priest, “Just look at our God,” he says as he points to a large crucified Jesus on the wall. “He heart is heavy from carrying all the sins of humanity on his back.”

The Krishnan looked confused. “What musical instrument does he play?” he asked.

“He doesn’t play any musical instrument,” snapped the priest, “He doesn’t have time for that.”

“I don’t see any pictures of your God dancing with women,” observes the Krishnan.

“Jesus did not carry on with women!” barked the priest.

“Was he gay?” asked the Krishnan.

“How dare you use the Lord’s name in vain!” shouted the priest.

With that the Krishnan smiled and nodded and turned to leave the church. “You realize that you are not worthy of Jesus Christ?” said the priest. The Krishnan turned back and said, “I’ve realized that your sad god is not worthy of me.”

If you want to utilize the mind for the growth of your consciousness instead of the growth of your ego, use it to question what beliefs you are holding onto that don’t allow you to see anything in its bare essence without clothing it in your judgments. Maybe you think spirituality should be serious. Maybe you think certain words are “dirty” and unbecoming of the purity of spirituality. Maybe you think that a truly spiritual person has no personality or opinion. These are the seeds of deception that have been blooming into poisonous plants of delusionary spirituality in you. Remove these seeds and you will be able to plant anything—even a stone—and make it flower with a fragrance that doesn’t make you high on unconsciousness but high on life itself, regardless of what form it takes.

So now I spelled out for you what’s at play. The “Jerk-Offs” probably nodded off through most of this diatribe and only “jerked” awake when I wrote “wet underwear and a sore dick.” The “Seekers” probably are cutting me up and putting me into different places on their plates, not following their own raw food/whole food dictum: that anything you separate into its component parts and consume only a fragment of becomes toxic to the body.

You have turned me toxic, you pussy “Seekers,” and by that I mean you frauds that claim to be seekers but are really just pussies and not those people whose mission it is to seek pussy. And all you had to do was ask… Instead you assumed.

REFLECTION:

What issues do you get extremely angry about? What types of people do you find repulsive? What topics get you excited? What type of people do you like? Think about the last time you talked with someone about politics or religion or the environment or any other “heated” topic and lost your cool? Reflect on what it is about that issue that makes you so attached to it being presented in a certain way, which is the way you see it, of course. For example, if you find someone to be repulsive because they weigh 350 lbs., what is that telling you about your belief system? “People should care about their health!” “That person is undisciplined!” Says who—you? So you might come to see that you personally place a value on health and discipline and so you think everyone else should. Why do you place a value on eating “healthy”? Solely to live longer? What if you could take a pill that would make you live as long as you’d like regardless of what you ate…would that change the way you looked at food choices? Why do you think another should be disciplined? Was that because you were raised like a circus animal with rewards and punishments, a trip to the ice-cream shop for a 100 on your paper and the ruler across your wrists from a nun who’s not married to Jesus but to sadism? If you want to answer any of these questions with, “Because. I mean, that’s just a given!” you have been brainwashed and need some serious deprogramming.

MEDITATION:

Read any of the pieces on my un-blog that are not poetry or teaching stories, and be a Witness to your reactions to them. Explore, just like in the REFLECTION above why you are reacting like you are. Why do you find something offensive? Why do you find something funny? Explore beyond the surface, for Who You Are lies in the very core of your being.

“I have spoken to you for over 35 years. Every gesture… every word… was to serve only one purpose: to destroy all your knowledge… everything you have accumulated up until now. It is only then that you can be spontaneous, that you can look at the stars… and the trees… and the colors of a sunset with the same eyes of wonder as a child’s. Until then you will just be a copy. And the Universe doesn’t make copies, it creates an abundance of individuals.”

—Osho